


cuts & scrapes

by lolainslackss



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Healing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 20:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14003961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolainslackss/pseuds/lolainslackss
Summary: Andrew is a school nurse and Neil is a gym teacher who keeps getting injured.





	cuts & scrapes

**Author's Note:**

> writing this was like that car meme (you know the one) where I'm headed towards fluffy and silly but frantically veer off into ANGST TOWN.
> 
> cw: references to past physical abuse, vague references to past sexual abuse, present trauma/panicky and bad feelings relating to past abuse  
> (please let me know if you think I need to add more)

**one**.

 

"There's someone here to see you."

It's nearly spring. Through his office window he can see the sky: blue, and flecked with wisps of cloud, split open by the tiniest hint of sunshine. The seasons are changing and he's glad.

Beyond the empty grounds, the playing fields are full of students running laps, picking teams. Their loud chatter carries, but it's vague. It's background noise.

"Mr. Minyard? Andrew?" Renee is saying.

He looks up, drawn out of his thoughts. Renee is the school administrator, and he likes her because she's the only other quiet person in the entire faculty.

"Send them in," Andrew tells her with a sigh.

She nods and goes to get them.

Andrew has been school nurse at this high school for nearly three years now, his first job since graduating from med school.

He's dealt with Bunsen burner mishaps, black eyes, pregnancy scares. He's patched up the messiest sports injuries, played therapist, had to question certain bruises.

He's seen it all, and he can spot a faker a mile away (so anyone who comes to see him with an imaginary illness is either just stupid, or hasn't been given the memo yet).

He wonders what it will be this time.

Instead of ushering a student into his office, however, Renee brings in a man wearing a black and orange tracksuit. He's got a whistle round his neck, a fake smile on his face, and blood running down his wrist from a deep gouge in his palm.

Andrew narrows his eyes at the man. He doesn't recognise him. Then, it clicks. That morning he overheard the others chatting about a new gym teacher starting. Andrew hadn't given the information a second thought at the time. Now he wishes he had. The blood is a warning sign. The smile is even worse.

Andrew instinctively avoids his gaze; it feels easier to do so.

Andrew puts on his glasses, pulls on some clean gloves and grabs some gauze and saline solution. As he does so, Renee slips out, mumbling something to the new gym teacher about being more careful, please.

"It's fine, really," The gym teacher is saying with forced cheer as Andrew reaches forward to clean the wound. "It looks worse than it feels."

"How did you manage this?" Andrew asks drily. "They turn on you or something?"

"Well, it _is_ my first day," The new gym teacher is saying, as if Andrew didn't know that. "But no. It was going so well until I tripped. I had my school keys in my hand and landed on them funny. I didn't realise it would cut so deep."

"Well, keys are hard pieces of metal," Andrew replies, keeping his eyes on the cut, cleaning away the dried blood, drawing out the gravel. "Maybe don't shove your palm into them next time."

"Wow, it's not like I did it on purpose," The new gym teacher retorts, and there's the tiniest shard of frustration in there, before he catches himself, easily slips back into the guise of a sheepish grin.

Andrew finishes cleaning the wound and begins sliding a bandage around the gym teacher's hand. It's quiet, and that sliver of sunlight cuts through the window. It's almost peaceful.

"Is that really necessary?" The gym teacher mutters, watching Andrew wind the white material around the cut.

"Keeps it clean," Andrew points out, tying the bandage firm, and then finally looking up to meet the new gym teacher's eye.

The man's eyes really are the most wild shade of blue; they're cornflowers, the entire sky. He's a few inches taller than Andrew, has these messy auburn curls that tumble across his forehead, the kind of bone structure that aspiring models would probably kill for. Andrew's mouth goes dry and their proximity suddenly feels like a living thing. It's too much and Andrew takes a step back, busies himself with disposing his gloves.

The new gym teacher holds up his hand and flexes it, as if testing the strength of the bandage. Apparently satisfied, he lets it drop to his side.

"Thanks for this," He says. "I should get back."

Andrew hums in agreement.

"Um, you didn't tell me your name?" The gym teacher asks.

"It's Andrew," Andrew tells him. "Minyard."

"Okay," The new gym teacher responds. "I'm Neil Josten. I'm the new gym teacher."

" _Obviously_ ," Andrew says, stopping himself before he can roll his eyes at the absurdity of it all. Sometimes it's so damn hard to remain professional.

Neil doesn't mind, it seems, as he laughs a little at Andrew's comment, and then nods once, before leaving.

And Andrew sighs, takes off his glasses and rubs them against his coat.

Here's the thing: he doesn't want anything, from anyone.

He's always kept his colleagues at arm's length, never felt any inclination to join them for drinks after work or catch up in the staff room. Having a surprisingly attractive new gym teacher thrown into the mix _shouldn't_ change any of that, but for a second he's worried it might. The second passes. As long as Neil stays injury-free, things should remain okay, exactly as they are.

Andrew takes another look out of his office window and sees Neil jogging over to the playing fields. When he reaches the far side of the grounds, he looks up, and spots Andrew watching him from the window.

He smiles, touches his fingers to his temple in a salute, and then he's gone.

Andrew can't tell if he's messing with him or not.

 

 **two**.

 

 _Something tragic happened here_ , the graffiti spat across the wall reads and he supposes it's accurate.

This time, Neil Josten can't make it to the office. He maybe has concussion, they think. He's by the playing fields, they tell him. He can barely move, they say.

Renee, that is, and a couple of worried students who come fetch him. They're breathless, faces flushed, and Andrew follows them wordlessly. They hurry across the grounds, Andrew's white coat billowing in the wind. He sees a cluster of kids surrounding the man on the floor.

 _Neil_ , Andrew thinks, and it's like his name is a thing he'd forgotten he'd dreamt about.

 _Idiot_ , Andrew is his second thought, and he's kneeling on the floor in an instant. The kids look rattled, he notices. As he leans in to inspect Neil, there's almost a collective intake of breath, and Andrew finds himself wondering how this gym teacher has made them all fall in love with him when he's only been around for about two minutes.

"He tripped, fell, hit his head," One of the kids is saying, his voice quivering with panic.

"It was _my_ ball he was fetching," Another says, and it's as sombre as an elegy. "If he dies it'll be _all my fault._ "

"Nobody's going to die," Andrew tells them gruffly.

"Well that's not true," Comes the inevitable retort. "We all die someday, right?"

"Nobody's dying _today_ ," Andrew clarifies.

Neil is dazed, but conscious. There's no sign of bleeding, Andrew notes, ignoring the immediate rush of relief.

"Neil," He says. Neil's eyelids flutter open. The tiny chestnut eyelashes catch the sunlight as they do. The copper shine is beautiful, his eyes even moreso. It's the kind of blue you find in paintings, the kind of blue that feels made-up.

"Neil?" He tries again, and Neil looks at him, confused.

"Was he unconscious?" Andrew asks nobody in particular.

"Just for a second," A girl answers.

"That's time enough," Andrew responds. "I don't see any swelling, but we should go to a hospital, get it checked over."

Neil shakes his head a little too enthusiastically for Andrew's liking.

"The head is everything," Andrew tells him. "It's a maze of vessels, a home to the brain."

"That's beautiful," A boy whispers, and Andrew has to stop himself from telling the kid to shut up.

"I'll get my car," Renee announces.

"I'm fine. Really," Neil protests, and attempts to stand up. Andrew instinctively reaches out a hand, stops him, his medical impulses at war with his regular ones.

"I can drive him," Andrew finds himself saying to Renee.

"You're the school nurse," Renee reminds him gently. "You're needed here more than I."

And the statement is strange, because Renee practically runs the entire school. Andrew shoves it aside.

"Do you need help standing?" Andrew asks Neil. They're still on the concrete, Neil sitting on the floor and Andrew crouching down beside him. Andrew realises his hand is still steady on the sleeve of Neil's sweatshirt. The fabric is soft and he pulls away, wipes his hand on his coat. Neil blinks, considering the question.

"I think I'm okay," He says, and he gets to his feet. He sways slightly on his feet and all the kids give a cry of horror. Andrew rolls his eyes. Neil does seem fine, if a little dazed. Still, a check-up is sensible.

He folds his arms as he watches Renee and Neil walk towards the parking lot.

"That was _amazing_ ," A girl shouts, running up to him.

"You were like the knight swooping in to rescue the injured prince," Another kid says excitedly. "So _cool._ "

Andrew raises his eyebrows.

"What do we do now Coach is gone?" A boy asks, looking around as if he were lost.

Andrew shrugs. What he really wants to do is smoke a cigarette and forget about his pretty colleague who is making him feel all mixed-up. What he really wants is for said colleague to take better care of himself so that he doesn't have to deal with him.

"Either clean that graffiti or take a free period," Andrew instructs them, waving a dismissive hand and heading back up to the school.

Neil Josten comes to his office to say _thank you_ and _sorry_ the next day with a not-very-serious bump on his head. Andrew refuses the flowers but takes the chocolate.

(He likes the graffiti really, and as the weeks speed past him, he one day realises someone crossed out the _tragic_ and changed it to _beautiful_...)

 

 **three**.

 

"Are you coming for a drink tonight?"

It's spring, and Neil Josten's hands are covered in Band-Aids, and he's standing in front of Andrew in the staff room asking him a stupid question.

"I don't do that kind of stuff," Andrew tells him before turning his attention back to his coffee.

"Fun stuff?" Neil asks teasingly.

"Work stuff," Andrew corrects him.

"But it's not work stuff," Neil argues. "It's _after_ -work stuff. They go out for drinks all the time."

"I know," Andrew says. "Still not interested."

Neil shrugs and turns to leave. Andrew is thankful he's not as persistent as the rest of them. Allison wouldn't leave him alone for weeks.

It's Friday evening, and the days are getting longer. He gets home, locks the door behind him and settles down on the sofa. There's a prickling, twisting urge set inside of him. He wants to talk to someone. It doesn't happen often.

He shuffles to the edge of the couch, boots up his laptop and opens Skype. He tries Nicky first but that times out. That only leaves Aaron. Aaron, who is still studying. Aaron, who he let loose into the world three years ago and yet will _always_ feel tethered to. He hits the call button.

"What's up?" Aaron greets him. He's wearing a shirt and tie. He looks tired, but in a soft way.

"Thought I'd check in," Andrew drawls. "See that you're not putting your education to waste."

"Don't worry," Aaron tells him. "I'm still on track to become a surgeon."

"And?" Andrew prompts, knowing it's coming.

"And you could have been too, if you'd stuck around a bit longer," Aaron mutters.

"Couldn't," Andrew replies flippantly. "Got bored."

"Speaking of bored," Aaron goes on. "How's your Friday night looking? You made any friends at this school of yours?"

"Have you forgotten who I am all of a sudden?" Andrew asks, suddenly regretting making the call.

"Just endlessly optimistic," Aaron says wearily. "I never could get you to socialise at med school. Thought old age might change that, and, well, you know."

Aaron trails off, suddenly awkward.

"You mean not having you around might change that," Andrew finishes the sentence for him. It doesn't hurt, not really. Not having Aaron with him anymore feels kind of like having a permanent fading bruise. The mark is there, but the pain isn't. Every now and then you still look at it though, wonder why it hasn't faded.

"Aren't you," Aaron starts, pointedly looking away from the camera, "I don't know, _lonely_?"

Andrew scoffs, considers ending the call right there.

"Nope," He says instead. "I have everything I need."

"At least get a pet," Aaron suggests with a sigh. "And call Nicky."

"I _tried_ ," Andrew retorts. "He didn't pick up. You were my last resort."

"Charming," Aaron replies, deadpan. "Look, I'd love to catch up-"

"Liar," Andrew interjects.

"I _would_ ," Aaron insists. "But Katelyn and I have a party tonight. We've got to grab some dinner first, so we're kind of in a rush."

"Sounds dreadful," Andrew says. "Go."

"Think about that pet," Aaron tells him, before logging off.

Andrew raises his eyebrows, sighs through his nose, and stares at the screen for a long minute. Then he closes the laptop and places it to the side, lies down on the couch with his knees up and an arm draped over his eyes.

Friday night, and he's napping. He wakes two hours later feeling disoriented, looks around his apartment. He hadn't even turned the lights on when he'd come in earlier. He supposes he should start making dinner. It all seems like such an effort but he manages to get up and off the couch anyway.

He thinks, _if everyone else is drinking then maybe I should be too_ , and heads to the liquor store to pick up a bottle of whisky he can start drinking while making dinner.

The evening is a little warmer than usual but there's still a chill to the breeze. Despite the change in the seasons, Andrew pulls on his winter coat for the walk.

As he approaches the store he recognises two familiar figures in front of it. He freezes, wonders if he can turn and head the other way without being noticed.

Neil Josten is with Kevin Day, the history teacher at their school. Andrew hates him, mostly because based on the very few interactions they've had, he actually thinks they could get on quite well. That is, if talking to people didn't make him feel like he was being slowly poisoned. So he hates him instead. It's easier.

Kevin's usually so serious and focused at school but he and Neil are giggling like a couple of stoned students and Andrew wonders what the hell they're doing.

"Th-they won't serve us in this state," Kevin is saying, pointing a waggling finger at Neil. "You have to- to sober up."

" _You_ have to sober up!" Neil cries, incredulous at Kevin's suggestion. They're both hammered, it seems, and Andrew feels a twitch of amusement at the thought that he quietly files away. He turns on his heel, but it's too late.

"Andrew Minyard!" Neil is shouting, and Andrew wonders if it'd be rude to break into a run.

"Andrew Minyard!" Kevin repeats, sounding shocked.

"Yes, _lovely_ to see you both," Andrew says sarcastically as he turns to greet them.

"You should have _definitely_ come for after-work drinks," Neil says, slurring his words slightly. "It was _amazing._ "

"Amazing?" Andrew repeats. "Really?"

"You're so funny," Neil says, laughing. "Isn't he funny, Kevin?"

"The funniest," Kevin agrees, and Andrew doesn't like it. He's not trying to be funny. He's trying to get them to leave him alone.

"I'm going to buy whisky," He announces, trying to change the subject. "Are you two going in?"

"We're going to buy more booze!" Neil and Kevin shout in unison.

"Okay," Andrew says, unmoved by their enthusiasm.

"Then we're going to go to Kevin's place and watch an Exy game," Neil explains excitedly.

"Exy?" Andrew says, snorting. "You two aren't into that, are you?"

They look at him as if he's just bashed their heads together.

"I run an Exy podcast," Kevin splutters, affronted.

"And _I_ \- I could have gone pro for sure if- well, if I- never mind," Neil says, and Andrew isn't sure if it's the booze of the seemingly frequent head injuries talking, but Neil suddenly looks distracted, like he's just stumbled into a room he didn't mean to. In a flash, the look is gone, and he's smiling again.

"Anyway," Neil goes on cheerfully. "It's the whole reason I ended up becoming a gym teacher."

"You sure you don't want to come?" Kevin asks Andrew. "You can bring your whisky and I have a load of food."

As Andrew considers the ridiculous proposition with more care than he wishes to, Neil stumbles, and Andrew immediately leans in to prop him up.

"You're drunk," Andrew tells him, shoving him upright.

"And you're always saving me," Neil says, and the words are warm, a blossom. Andrew scowls and looks away.

"It's my job," He says.

"Of course," Neil agrees, smiling.

"Just remember I can't do anything about hangovers," Andrew says, which causes Neil and Kevin to laugh and laugh.

Part of him wishes he could go with them, but he can't, he _can't_.

"I'm busy," He tells them, balling his hands into fists inside his pockets. And maybe he _could_ be, if he wanted. He could call Roland, but it's been a while. Too long, probably.

"That's fair," Neil says, but he looks disappointed.

Andrew trails after them into the liquor store, pretends he's not with them when he hears them snickering in the aisle next to him. They each pay for their booze and then leave.

Andrew watches Kevin and Neil go and then heads back inside, buys a packet of cigarettes too.

He walks home smoking one carefully, slowly.

He wishes he'd learnt how to trust people, how to let them in, but it's too late, he thinks. The time for that has passed.

 

 **four**.

 

"Neil Josten is here for the random drug testing."

Of _course_ he is.

"Send him in," Andrew tells Renee, hoping he's barely reacting.

Neil had profusely apologised for his and Kevin's 'embarrassing' behaviour in the staff room earlier that week (Kevin had done no such thing). Since then, there'd been no trips to the nurse's office, and Andrew had a fairly peaceful week (not counting the compass incident). The school sometimes did random drug testing on the teachers, and apparently Neil had been selected.

Neil enters the room looking worried. Andrew wonders if it's because he's embarrassed about having to pee in a cup.

He explains to Neil what he needs him to do and then leaves to offer Neil some privacy.

"Can I go now?" Neil asks as soon as Andrew returns to the room.

"Nearly," Andrew tells him. "I just need to check you for marks."

"Won't the pee tell you everything you need to know?" Neil asks, the slightest hint of a dark edge to his voice.

"Procedure," Andrew says with a shrug. "You can refuse but they won't like it."

Neil sighs, frustrated and then unzips his tracksuit jacket. He takes it off and tosses it aside. Underneath he's wearing a long-sleeved white t-shirt.

It just then dawns on Andrew: Neil Josten is undressing in his office. Andrew sits down, crosses one leg over the other, uncrosses it. He tries to look away but there's no point. He has to look anyway.

Neil sighs again, tugs his t-shirt up and over his head. He won't look Andrew in the eye and Andrew immediately notices why.

A river of scars, flowing up and down his arms, across his chest.

Andrew feels himself grow very still, feels something in his chest clench tight. They're not the same as his own, he can tell.

Neil looks down at the ground, runs his hands across his body as if trying to hide himself.

Andrew shakes his head, gets to his feet.

"You don't have to say anything," He says, and the impulses jumble together. He wants to reach out, to touch and to heal, but also to caress; he wants to pull away, look away. He wants to do both, neither, disappear, stay.

"I don't know. Maybe it _would_ be better to talk about it sometime," Neil replies eventually, and his voice is quiet.

"That's up to you," Andrew tells him, and he means it. "You can go now."

Neil breathes out his relief and grabs his clothes. He pulls them back on clumsily.

Andrew doesn't watch him leave but hears the click of the door. The sound is a catalyst and the he's sitting on the floor, hollowed out. He doesn't look at his own scars much. They're so faded now, translucent with time. And Neil's are different. But it's always going to spark a fire, fill his head with the residue of causing harm, making it hurt.

Once he's calm, he thinks about Neil Josten.

Someone hurt him once.

He thinks about Neil Josten slipping on the playing field, tearing his palm open with his new staff keys. Andrew had cleaned the wound, bandaged it up. It had looked sore, but Neil had obviously gone through worse at someone else's hand.

The thought of it fills him with an anger so fierce it's startling.

It cuts through everything.

 

 **five**.

 

"Drink?"

It's mid-Spring and it's finally warm and Andrew is standing in front of Neil and feeling like he's asking him to prom or something.

"Huh?" Neil asks, confused.

"You heard me," Andrew says. "Drink? Tonight? You, me? After work?"

"That's a-" Neil attempts. "That's a lot of questions."

"And?"

"Yes to all."

They walk to the bar Andrew has picked out in silence. Andrew wonders if it's the same one the staff frequent on Friday nights. He hopes not, and feels certain it isn't. It's a little further than the others, and a bit more expensive. Andrew likes it because they have the best whisky selection.

"Balvenie 12," Andrew tells the bartender. "You?"

"Uh, same, I guess," Neil says.

"Two of those," Andrew amends, and they watch the bartender pour the dark, red-gold liquid into two patterned glasses.

They find a table, clink their glasses together in a cheers and Andrew downs his first drink. Neil sips at his slowly as Andrew orders another round.

"You said before that it might be better to talk," Andrew says, cutting to the point. "You don't have to if you don't want to. It doesn't matter to me."

"Oh," Neil replies, and runs a hand through his hair. In the dark of the bar, it's the same colour of the whisky and Andrew swallows hard. He can't lie to himself. What would be the point? He's attracted to Neil and always has been. He wants to kiss him, wants them to press their bodies together, do _everything_. But he also knows it's far from possible, so he tries to snap out of it. After all, that's not why he came here and his desire is, as always, precarious, a minefield.

"You know, they say you're not very nice," Neil says after a pause, after knocking back a second shot of whisky. "But here you are, being nice to me. Do you like me?"

Andrew doesn't know how to evade that particular question.

"I'm not your biggest fan," He settles on.

"Okay," Neil replies. "That's fine, I guess."

"You get hurt way too often for your own good," Andrew continues. "You don't seem to act one hundred per cent real. On top of that, you're a sports fan."

"I'm an _Exy_ fan," Neil corrects him hotly, looking annoyed at being confronted in such a way. "And that doesn't mean you know everything about me. I'm learning Italian on Wednesday afternoons. I'm good with numbers. People aren't a certain way just because you think so. Renee does kickboxing. Kevin's really good with technology. Allison once won a demolition derby. People are interesting."

"I didn't say they weren't," Andrew retorts. "That doesn't mean I want to get to know them."

"Except me," Neil counters.

"We'll see," Andrew says, and he orders them another drink.

They drink their next round in silence.

"Somebody hurt me before," Andrew finally says, and the bad atmosphere dissipates. "I've been hurt by many different people in many different ways."

 _It's left me all fucked up_ , he thinks.

Neil listens and gestures for Andrew to continue.

"You've been hurt too," Andrew goes on, and Neil stills slightly, almost seems to stop breathing. One second he's an animal caught in a snare. The next, he's escaping. He blinks and nods, confirming it. Andrew's fingers tighten around the glass.

"It was a long time ago," Neil says, and his voice is strained. "For you too?"

"Yes," Andrew agrees. "But-"

"It's always there," Neil tells him. "A dark cloud."

"Not for you," Andrew goes on. "You seem-"

" _Normal_?" Neil suggests with a bitter laugh. "That's only because I try so hard to appear so. I'm broken to pieces inside, I promise."

Neil looks away, and there's a tension in his movements Andrew can't ignore. He wonders whether to push further than where they've gotten to.

"My father was a bad guy," Neil tells Andrew finally, turning so that he can look directly into his eyes, "and not just like, 'oh he was a bad father'. He was tied up in all this shady business around town. He was mean to me and he was mean to my mother. You saw the scars, so you get it. One day she had enough of it and took off with me. We skipped town, moved across country. We changed our names and lived our lives and everything was okay. Not perfect, but nothing is, right?"

Neil pauses, and Andrew holds his gaze. They each swirl the whisky in their glasses, take a sip.

"I went to the local school and I poured myself into Exy. It was the only thing I loved and it made me forget about all the bad stuff with my father. It made things feel like- well, _enough_. But he inevitably found us. We should have kept on the move, but we didn't. By that time he had a new wife and even a new son, but he was a bad guy, a mean guy. I think at that point it was a matter of pride, of control. He killed her, and left me with broken legs. No more Exy. Just like that."

Neil pauses again, and Andrew feels like they're falling into the floor, like they're the only two people in the entire bar, in the entire world.

"Anyway, I was patched up enough to function at the hospital, but it wasn't the same," Neil continues. "I was _eventually_ fostered by someone half-decent. They had enough money to send my to physiotherapy. I did a bunch of crappy jobs, put all my savings into the physiotherapy, and I've continued with it up to now. A few years ago I started training to become an Exy coach, found this position instead. And here I am," Neil finishes.

"Is he dead?" Andrew asks.

"My father?" Neil replies. "Yeah, he's dead. The FBI took him down in a raid, though I wish I could say I'd killed him myself. Is that interesting enough for you?"

"I don't have a problem with you because you're not _interesting_ ," Andrew snaps. "I have a problem with you because you're _so_ interesting I might actually have to keep you around, and that can't happen."

"Why not?" Neil asks, lightning-fast.

"Because bad things happen when I do," Andrew says, and he slams back another shot of whisky.

"Do what?" Neil sounds confused, and Andrew doesn't know how to explain it. He _can't_ explain it. To put it into words would give it shape, form. And that could kill him.

Still, Neil just bared his soul to Andrew, so maybe he can try to do the same.

"I can't let anyone in," Andrew tries. "Not anymore. I'm done with it."

"Okay," Neil replies. "That's okay. Can you help me understand what you mean?"

"I was put into the foster system as a baby. I was abandoned by my mother, separated from my twin. From there, it got worse. Shit happened. Until, someone good. Someone I cared about. Someone I thought cared about me. Not so much. That went wrong too. I found out I had a twin, followed him to med school at my cousin's suggestion. That's the only reason I do this job. I trained to become a nurse, but after I had to leave. I realised I had to let him go before _that_ could all go inevitably wrong. And it's better that way, at a distance. It works. So never again will I let anyone get near. I don't even bother trying," Andrew says, the words tumbling out of him too-quickly, leaving him feeling exhausted all of a sudden.

"You don't let anyone in because you think you'll be hurt, let down, abandoned," Neil is saying, and Andrew reaches over, presses a finger to his lips.

"I said because it would go _wrong_ ," Andrew bites out. "Don't try to _analyse_ me."

"I'm not," Neil mutters softly against his finger.

The warmth of his breath is too much. The softness of his lips are too much. It's all too much and Andrew pulls his finger away.

"I won't let anything go wrong," Neil says softly, and Andrew looks into his eyes and knows he means it.

He's just not sure that's enough.

 

 **six**.

 

They continue going for drinks on Friday evenings. Sometimes Kevin comes along, sometimes he decides to go with the other group. They head to that same bar every time, drink whisky. It's all going okay, Andrew thinks, until he stupidly invites Neil up to his apartment one night.

The apartment is dark, and the door hinges squeak as it swings open. Andrew switches on the lights and then heads for the mini-bar. He can't remember the last time he'd been in his apartment with someone. With Roland, it was always at the club, or at Roland's place. It must have been when Nicky and Aaron helped him move in. Three years ago. He really ought to think about getting that pet.

"It's clean," Neil says, looking around.

Andrew shrugs, hopes he appears calm as he hands Neil a drink. Despite his quickening heartbeat, his hand is steady as he passes it. It doesn't matter. He doesn't think anything's going to happen anyway. He gets mixed signals from Neil, though he's sure this is as much his fault as it is Neil's. After all, Neil knows he's struggling, trying, all wound up. Ready to stay, ready to disappear. Ready to touch, ready to pull away.

And yet, Neil is still here.

"I have issues with touching," Andrew mumbles, and Neil tilts his head to the side, as if he's trying to figure out Andrew's train of thought.

"That's okay," Neil says eventually. "Some people do, don't they?"

"This is different," Andrew says, and he sighs, hardly believing he's telling Neil this. "I want to touch you, but I know it'll be hard. It'll stir up these- ugh, _feelings_. I want to try, but I need to start small."

He's learned this over time, of course. At first he'd steam ahead with boys, but that would just cause trouble. It was overwhelming, too much. It left him feeling like there were insects crawling beneath his skin, left him feeling numb, scraped empty, left him feeling like nothing at all. With Roland, he hadn't said anything about the touching. He'd just made it obvious. He'd directed Roland's hands with his own, slipped away when he needed to.

With Neil, he decides he's just going to be upfront. Neil, however, looks at Andrew like he's just suggested they go golfing on the moon.

"You want to touch me?" Neil blurts out, and Andrew's worried for a moment that Neil might fall sideways.

"Yes," Andrew answers him. "Wasn't that obvious?"

"No!" Neil practically yells.

"Oh," Andrew responds. "I thought you knew about it, that you were waiting until I was ready."

"No, I-" Neil begins, and he's flushed, flustered. "I thought you uh, 'weren't my biggest fan', remember? I didn't realise you- well, _that._ "

"Okay," Andrew replies, and he presses his lips together. "I made a mistake. I won't mention it again."

"No, that's not what I-" Neil protests. "I'm not saying I don't want _that_ , just that it was unexpected."

"I'll start again," Andrew says. "I think you're terrible, but you're here."

"Thanks," Neil replies, deadpan.

"Read between the lines," Andrew tells him, rolling his eyes. "I won't say it out loud."

"What do we do?" Neil asks, licking his lips. "I don't have much experience with this. Or any experience at all, actually."

Now Andrew feels like _he_ might fall sideways.

"Any?" He repeats. "How is that possible?"

"Never been interested," Neil tells him with a shrug.

"Until now?" Andrew asks doubtfully.

"I guess," Neil says.

"'I guess' isn't really good enough," Andrew retorts. "You should only do this if you really want to."

"I _do_ want to," Neil snaps, frustrated. "You're the only person I've ever met who makes me feel less lonely."

"That's so stupid," Andrew replies. "Why would you say that?"

"Because it's true," Neil counters, his voice softening.

"Give me your hand," Andrew says eventually, walking forward a single step so that they're a fraction closer.

Neil offers his hand, palm up, and Andrew hesitates. Then, he reaches out, takes Neil's hand in his own, and very slowly interlaces their fingers, breathes out. Neil's hand is warm and slightly callused. It feels right. It feels like _Neil_.

"Is that okay?" Neil asks quietly.

Andrew shushes him, takes Neil's other hand and does the same thing with it. Neil is very still, lets Andrew take the lead, doesn't dig his fingers into Andrew's knuckles. _Steady_.

They stand like that a minute or two, both hands woven together and hanging in the space between them.

"Can I kiss you?" Neil lets the question settle in the space between them. "Just as we are."

"Yes," Andrew says, and it comes out of him all pained. He wants to do so much _more_ than that, but knows it's all he needs right now.

Neil leans down without moving any further forward and places a feather-light kiss on his lips. Andrew squeezes down on his hands when Neil starts to move away, shakes his head.

"Again," He says, and Neil kisses him again, their mouths slightly parted this time, and _firmer_.

This time, when Neil moves away, Andrew lets him.

He gently lets go of Neil's hands.

 

 **seven**.

 

"There's someone here to see you,"

Spring is nearly over. It's warm, so very warm. The sunlight cascades through the window, a sea of bright light. Summer is coming, which means school will be done soon, and he's so glad. He wants to spend every second of it with Neil.

Neil, whose chest he fell asleep on last night.

Neil, who is walking through his office door cradling a bloody arm.

"What did you do this time?" Andrew asks, only half-annoyed.

"The usual," Neil replies with a shrug. "Was shoved into a wall by an over-zealous student during play and scraped my arm against the brick. It looks worse than it is."

"It always does with you," Andrew retorts, and with that, he takes Neil's arm and begins cleaning away the blood, the gravel.

"You're always cleaning me up," Neil mumbles. His face is all sweaty and red from the early summer sun. "What can I do to make it up to you?"

And Andrew wants to kiss him right there and then in the middle of his office.

He doesn't, continues to clean the shallow scrapes in Neil's flesh, bandages it up when he's done.

As he did the first time, Neil raises his arm, flexes it as if to test the bandage. Andrew understands now. He's testing if he's still alive, still going.

Andrew's glad he is.

Neil presses a kiss to Andrew's cheek before heading back to his students.

Andrew is glad of a lot of things.

**Author's Note:**

> next up from me: an AU all about Kevin running an Exy podcast. stay tuned. (just kidding) ((probably))


End file.
